


My Favorite Flavor

by sapphirecobalt



Series: Baskin Robbins Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Castiel is Claire Novak's Parent, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Ice Cream, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Binary Castiel (Supernatural), Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Punk Dean Winchester, Sassy Claire Novak, Trans Male Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirecobalt/pseuds/sapphirecobalt
Summary: Life rarely goes as planned.Case in point: Castiel. They walk into Baskin Robbins to pick Claire up from work, but they end up with more than they bargained for. What he gets is: a sassy teenage daughter, a near homicide experience, and the attention of a handsome stranger, but will he ever get his ice cream?
Relationships: Castiel & Claire Novak, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Baskin Robbins Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085672
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103
Collections: ProfoundBond Prompt Collection





	My Favorite Flavor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Redamber79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redamber79/gifts), [KhajitTink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhajitTink/gifts).



> This fic is based on their prompt.
> 
> A tremedous thank you to evolving.diamond, [CelestialSilhouette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialSilhouette/pseuds/CelestialSilhouette), and [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes/pseuds/WeAreTheLuckyOnes) for beta'ing this fic, your suggestions were incredibly helpful. Any remaining errors exist purely due to my own stubbornness. A special thank you to [kittimau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau) for the sensitivity read.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the song [Ice Cream](https://youtu.be/vRXZj0DzXIA) by BLACKPINK ft Selena Gomez

Laptop case in hand, Castiel opens the glass door and speedwalks into the local Baskin Robbins. The ice cream shop greets him with a blast of ice cold air as they step inside seeking reprieve from the unforgiving July heat. He’s too busy walking up to the display of ice cream to really register the chime of the bell above the door, but it diligently alerts the shop’s patrons of their presence.

“One second!” a familiar voice promises to the left, from the depths of the ice cream parlor. 

All of the half dozen or so customers in the shop turn to face Castiel, but he pays them no mind. He’s here on a mission, which they haven’t forgotten, but walking up to the counter and seeing the variety of ice cream flavors on display through the glass momentarily distracts him. They’ve had a long week — teaching summer classes at the local community college is not an easy feat, less so when the sun decides to shine without mercy. 

Staring at the swirls of multicolored soft-served sweets, Castiel makes the executive decision to reward himself for getting through the week with an ice cold treat.

There are several flavors to choose from: from the classic Vanilla, to more unique flavors, such as Cherry Coke; Castiel makes a subtle face of displeasure at that. Their choices are limited, somewhat, by the fact that a couple of the flavors have run out or are close to running out. Still, Castiel carefully considers his options, their synapses firing on all heat-baked cylinders, outweighing the pros and cons of each flavor combination when he finally makes his decision. He’ll have a —

“You’re here early.” 

Castiel looks up and quirks the corner of his lip. “Now, Claire, is that anyway to greet your parent?”

“It is when they’re early,” she replies cheekily.

Castiel lightly admonishes his daughter, “Claire, we’ve had this conversation before…” 

Claire gave a full-body eye roll. “I know, I know. ‘Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference.’”

“Exactly,” he gave her a small, but no less sincere smile.

Claire leans forward and rests her crossed arms on the counter. “You know, Ren, just because you’re a professor doesn’t mean you have to teach me Churchill quotes.” 

It’s her eyes that give it away. Claire has always been adept at hiding her true feelings, in a way that many people envy. She could mimic the facial expressions and body language of someone more emotionally put together, like the best of them. Castiel considers themself fortunate enough to be one of the few people who knows her eyes are always more honest than they have any right to be. Right now, looking in his daughter’s eyes, Castiel sees mirth and knows she’s teasing. He’s never been the best at reading people, but they’re very fortunate that Claire allows him to read her.

“Wasn’t Churchill,” the familiar voice that greeted him earlier states, strained. Barely a moment passes when Annie Jones walks into the main part of the shop carrying a large stack of ice cream containers.

“Very good, Annie.” 

Claire furrows her brows and looks back and forth between her parent and her best friend.

Seeing the look on her friend’s face, Annie clarifies. “It wasn’t Churchill who said that,” she says leaning back as she walks, so as to not drop the mountain of — no doubt — freezing cold ice cream containers. 

Claire rolls her eyes once more, only this time it’s aimed at both Castiel and Annie. Castiel notices Annie’s struggle and gives their daughter a significant look. “Claire.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to help her?”

Claire expresses her dissatisfaction with a groan; nevertheless, she helps her friend. To anyone who doesn’t know her personally, Claire might seem selfish, but since Castiel is one of the very few people Claire opens up to, he knows that under her tough exterior is a kind young woman, as evidenced by her taking most of the ice cream containers from Annie’s clutch, putting them on the counter and helping the other young woman restock the ice cream.

“It’s ‘Alex’, sir,” Annie says while taking out the empty ice cream containers and replacing them with the full ones. 

“Hmm?” Castiel hums in confusion, shifting their attention from his daughter to her friend.

“I go by ‘Alex’ now, Mr. Novak,” her gentle tone and soft blue eyes all but beg him to remember.

“Remember?” Claire asks, scooping up some red-orange ice cream from the container she just pulled out and stacking the scoops on the container of matching ice cream in the display before smoothing it out.

“Yes, of course, my apologies.” Cas shifts his weight and grabs their laptop case with the other hand.

Annie — no, _Alex_ — wants everyone to call her by a new name, one she chose herself. Alex hates the name her birth mother gave her — too many bad memories associated with it — so her adoptive moms gave her permission to have it changed legally. 

“I remember,” Castiel says, more to themself than anyone else. 

Annie — _Alex_ — gives him a smile, small and sad, which leads them to believe she’s thinking of why she wanted her name changed, too.

The moment ends — pops like a bubble — when Claire stacks up the empty ice cream containers with a clatter and holds them out to Alex. Alex nods in the direction of the back room, which must mean something to Claire because she replies with an “ _Ugh,_ ” and walks off in the direction Alex motioned to, presumably to take care of the dishes. Castiel smiles while watching Claire work, content with the knowledge that Alex is a good influence on his daughter; after all, Claire doesn’t do the dishes for just anyone. 

Placing her hands on the counter, Alex leans forward. “What brings you here so early, Mr. Novak?”

Castiel turns his attention to the young woman in front of him and is about to reply when they’re cut off by Claire.

“Told you so!” she says from somewhere in the backroom and although it’s a bit muffled, he can detect the smugness in her voice.

Alex scoffs and looks at Castiel expectantly.

Only then does he remember she asked him a question. “Oh, yes, right. I’m here to pick up, Claire, but it appears I’m a bit early.”

“Her shift doesn’t end for —” Alex checks her watch “— another hour,” she confirms. “But you’re more than welcome to stay for a bit.”

“Yes, thank you, Alex.”

“Can I get you anything while you’re here?” 

“Ah yes, I’ll have a —”

“I got this, Alex,” Claire interrupts him as she exits the backroom.

Alex shrugs. “See you around, Mr. Novak.”

“You, too, Alex.” 

On her way to the backroom, Alex says to Claire, “Watch the register, I’m going to take my break.” 

Claire snorts in disbelief, giving a full-body eye roll, which Alex doesn’t see, before turning back to her father. “So what’d you want to order?”

Castiel furrows their brows and tilts his head in confusion, “What was that?”

Claire mirrors his furrowed brows and head tilt, “What was what?” 

“Alex told you she was taking her break but you don’t seem to believe her. Why?”

Claire’s confusion melts into understanding. She grabs a rag and bottle of cleaner from behind the counter, which tells Castiel everything he needs to know, since Claire only voluntarily cleans when she’s stressed. “Well, her ‘break’ —” Claire drops the cleaning rag on the counter and gives a brief one-handed finger quote, “— usually means she’s going to hang out with her _boyfriend_.” She says the last word as if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth while spraying the stainless counter and wiping it down.

“Is there something wrong with the boyfriend?”

Claire pauses her furious counter wiping long enough to reply with, “I don’t like him.”

“How come?” Castiel asks, curious as to what could cause Claire to feel so much contempt towards Alex’s boyfriend.

Silence. 

Then, “I don’t know,” she confesses, spraying and wiping down the same area of the counter. “He’s just — _so annoying_ , you know?” she huffs, taking a temporary reprieve from wiping a hole in the counter. “She’s been dating him for like, a _month_ , and every time we hang out he’s _always_ there. It’s like — it’s like he can’t take a shit if he isn’t with her!” Claire exclaims in frustration.

Castiel ignores the profanity in favor of letting Claire express her feelings. If her mother were here, she’d balk at Claire’s vulgar language, but even Amelia would be pleased that their teenage daughter is confiding in her parents.

“And when the three of us do hang out, we can’t even do some of the things Alex and I always do together because —” Claire mocked Alex’s voice in a very exaggerated manner, “— ‘Henry doesn’t like vintage horror movies, Claire’ or ‘Henry doesn’t like making fun of male authors who don’t know how to write women even though he looks like he doesn’t know the difference between a mascara wand and a vibrator, _Claire_ ,’” and with every word she speaks she grinds the cleaning cloth further into the metal counter until she throws it down in a frustrated grunt and slams the spray bottle on the counter so hard it rattles and falls over. She crosses her arms and pouts; from where he stands, he can see her watery eyes even though she hides them behind a few loose strands of blonde hair. 

Castiel's heartaches and he looks at her with sad, sympathetic eyes, but she doesn't meet theirs. He remembers when she was a little girl. She threw the worst tantrums as a toddler and would always throw things before sitting down and crying. Now, at sixteen, she doesn’t throw things in frustration anymore, (thankfully, she grew out of that by the time she was six or so) but she does slam whatever object she has in her hand on the nearest surface (that’s how she broke not one, not two, but _three_ phones, and Castiel has the bills and receipts to prove it). She also crosses her arms and pouts with big watery eyes, like she’s doing now. While her method of expressing her anger and overall dissatisfaction with the world changed over time, Castiel’s method of cheering up his daughter has not, which comforted them as much as it did her.

“Claire?” They speak to her softly.

She mumbles something that sounds like, “ _What?_ ”

“Look at me, please?” Castiel asks, kindly. 

She doesn’t.

“Claire-bear?” Castiel speaks gently, sets his laptop case on the floor so it leans against their leg, and opens his arms in invitation.

Claire hesitates before going around the counter and walking into her ren’s arms, hugging him back tightly. Castiel wraps his arms around their little girl who isn’t a little girl anymore and runs a hand down her back repeatedly in a comforting gesture. He looks around the small ice cream parlor and notices a few of the patrons are staring at them and Claire, so he glares at every single one of them until they look away. He rests their chin on top of his daughter’s head, careful not to mess up her ponytail, and lets her take all the comfort she needs as they stand there in silence for a few minutes. 

Claire takes a few deep and fortifying breaths before muttering in a shaky voice, “Thanks, Ren.”

Castiel presses a kiss to her head before he speaks loud enough for Claire to hear but not so loud the nosy customers would know what he was talking about, “What are you going to do in regards to your friendship with Alex and her relationship with this Henry?”

Claire lifts her head from where it rests on Cas’ shoulder. “I don’t know.” Castiel could hear the frown in her tone although they couldn’t see her face. “I guess I’ll...bring it up to Alex after work?”

She seems to talk more to herself than to Cas; nevertheless, they suggest, “Perhaps you could schedule a ‘girls’ night’?” 

Claire looks up at him with a small smile, watery red eyes, a cheek streaked with a single tear, and her arms still wrapped around him. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.” She lets go of Castiel to wipe her face. “Thanks, Ren.” Claire gives him a shy smile. 

He returns it with a small smile of his own. 

She sniffles, wiping her face one last time. “So, what do you want?”

Castiel puts his hand over his heart, in mock offense, and makes sure his tone is exaggerated enough, “Claire-bear, is that anyway to take your ren’s order?”

The sound of Claire’s laugh, even if it’s only a scoff, warms Castiel’s heart. Claire bows in mock supplication, “My deepest apologies, Your Royal Highness,” she responds in kind with a truly awful faux British accent and Castiel can hear the smile in her voice as she speaks.

“Please take me to my seat,” Castiel smiles in amusement at his daughter’s theatrics. This time, when the other customers throw him and Claire strange looks, he doesn’t glare at them until they stopped; he simply lets them enjoy the show with their afternoon snack.

“But of course, my liege,” Claire continues her inaccurate attempt at a British accent while walking the few steps to the nearest empty table and motioning to the chair with an over-the-top flourish.

“That’s much better,” Castiel responds with a smile as he grabs his laptop case and sits down; Claire pushes the chair in.

“What shall I get for you, my liege?” she asks Castiel as they set his laptop case on the cold metal table.

Once fully settled in his seat, Castiel faces his daughter and finally places their order. 

“Excellent choice, Your Royal Highness. I shall return momentarily with your snack,” Claire spins on her heels and goes back behind the counter to prepare Castiel’s order. 

While he waits, Castiel removes his laptop from it’s case, gently placing it on the table and turning it on. Once he types the password, they take out a red pen and a stack of papers to be graded before placing the case on the ground so it leans against the white metal chair. He’s just about to open up an email from a student when Claire returns with their order: a double scoop of Snickers ice cream in a waffle cone wrapped in a napkin. 

“Here you go, ren,” Claire says, voice steady, eyes less red than before, and no longer embracing her earlier theatrics. 

_Thank God_ , Castiel thinks. His daughter is many things, but good at replicating accents she is not.

Claire walks back to her station, presumably to work, while Castiel stares at the email in front of them while trying to figure out how best to respond. They eat the soft serve treat, savoring the sweet flavor of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, caramel sauce, and the salty taste of the peanuts. By the time he’s able to formulate an appropriate response to the email, their ice cream is down to the cone. He sends the email after typing it with one hand while polishing off the waffle cone before digging through the rest of their inbox. He continues replying to emails with the sound of people chattering in the background. 

The bell above the entrance rings just as Castiel clicks send on the last email, but he doesn’t look up to see who left or walked in. Instead, they eye the stack of essays on queer theory with apprehension. Once he’s sure the essays aren’t going to bite him, they grab the first essay from the stack and his “Red Pen of Doom”, as his students aptly named it, then gets to work. 

What feels like twenty minutes and one and a half graded papers later, the tinkling sound of the bell is followed by an obnoxious voice, which snaps Castiel out of his focus. 

They look up, frowning at the newcomer — a middle-aged brunette speaking on the phone — for unknowingly interrupting his “groove” (he blamed the word choice on Claire, who made him watch _The Emperor’s New Groove_ last night, insisting Castiel would enjoy poking fun at any historical inaccuracies; they did).

The obnoxious woman ends her phone and Castiel finds themself feeling bad for the eardrums of whoever was on the other end of that call. Now that the overall noise level has gone down significantly, Castiel can focus on grading _The History of Queer Theory_ by Channing Ngo.

Or so he thought.

The woman resolved to use her inside voice when speaking and ordering her food. Lucky for Castiel, her indoor voice isn’t so distracting that he can’t keep grading the paper in his hands. Before he knows it, he’s immersed in the prose of one of his brightest students, hooked by her thesis, captivated by the way she presents her facts and —

“You’re _lying,_ ” accuses a shrill voice.

Castiel looks up to find the middle-aged woman staring Claire down with a piercing gaze that would make lesser people back down.

But Claire has never been one to back down from a fight and she’s got the scars to prove it.

If the way his daughter stares at the shorter blond woman is any indication, Castiel is going to have to intervene. Otherwise, Claire will end up with a couple of new scars to show off and there will be one less middle-aged woman and one less Novak in the world after Amelia kills them both. 

Casriel gets up, metal chair screeching against the tile floor with a noise that would normally set his teeth on edge if they weren't busy being pinned down by Claire’s glare. She must have heard him get up and knew they were seconds away from intervening because she gives him a glare that could only be interpreted as _“back off”_. Every fiber of his being screams to ignore Claire and save her from the five foot tall middle-aged woman who’s gone red in the face from airing her grievances in front of all the customers in the parlor but Castiel remains frozen, half out of his seat, taking in deep breath after deep breath and willing himself to calm down. 

As much as they hate it, he forces himself to sit down. As much as he absolutely _loathes_ it, they sit, hands turning white from clenching the sides of the chair, as the metal digs into his palms. Castiel's lips are pressed into a thin line of displeasure and their face begins to hurt from frowning so much, all to keep himself from betraying Claire’s trust, which he’s worked so hard to earn.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but like I said, _repeatedly_ , we don’t sell milkshakes here,” Claire politely reminds the woman with a fake smile and tension written in every line of her body. 

“ _Nonsense,_ ” the woman screeches. “I worked at a Baskin Robbins in Mississippi _and_ Texas and they both had milkshake machines.”

Claire’s fake smile grows and she uses her “customer service voice” to explain, “This isn’t Mississippi or Texas. It’s Louisiana, where we don’t have milkshake machines in our Baskin Robbins.” Castiel can tell Claire did her best not to sound condescending, however, unluckily for all of them, she’s unsuccessful in her attempt. “However, we _do_ have ice cream,” Claire motions to the display in front of her, “Can I interest you in some?”

“This is ridiculous! Is this how you treat all of your customers? By hiding the milkshake machine from us? I _demand_ to speak to your manager!” the woman shrieks. 

“She’s not here,” Claire responds glaring at the woman, not bothering to disguise her contempt as her tone drips with venom. 

This woman has no idea who she’s talking to, and Castiel almost feels bad for her, having been on the receiving end of Claire’s verbal tongue lashings and having witnessed the receiving end of Claire’s anger. As proud as Castiel is that Claire hasn’t attacked this unpleasant woman, he can’t deny that they’re seething because _who does this woman think she is disrespecting his little girl like that_ and that’s when Castiel starts to feel the chair digging into his skin and he releases his grip on the metal. He briefly looks at the angry red and pink lines where the metal had left imprints on their skin and resigns themself to massaging his hands. 

Castiel takes deep breaths, _gently_ massaging his left hand, then their right, then his left again, as if being gentle with his hands will somehow combat his anger towards the middle-aged woman currently verbally harassing his daughter and their fierce desire to protect her.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

He slowly inhales, reminding himself that they need to set an example for Claire.

He slowly exhales, reminding himself that they need to be a role model for Claire. 

He opens his eyes and looks at Claire, taking in the sight of her folded arms, the tension in her shoulders, and the absolute seething hatred for the woman standing before her in her eyes. He locks eyes on the middle-aged woman still screaming at Claire. He gets up, preparing themself to separate a fight if need be, and —

A blur of motion stops them.

Castiel finds themself frozen, halfway out of his seat for the second time in an hour, only this time, it’s in awe. 

Another customer — most notably wearing a black kilt with pink, purple, and blue pleats, which accentuate the bow shape of his legs quite nicely — walks up to the register, placing him a few feet away from the woman still yelling at Claire. The customer clears his throat, frowning at the woman with brows the same color as his hair, a sandy brown which glistens in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

The middle-aged woman pauses long enough to give the man a glance before continuing to demand Claire call the manager.

With about as much subtly as a jackhammer, the attractive man in the kilt makes a show of taking out his wallet — his very _thick wallet_ — pulling out a couple of bills and placing them in the tip jar by the register.

Castiel sits down, frowning in confusion. _What is he doing?_

Both Claire and the woman notice the man put the money in the tip jar but neither pay him much attention seeing as soon becomes Claire too busy responding to the woman with biting sarcasm.

The man clears his throat, this time with more emphasis. Both Claire and the rude customer turn to face the man as he puts another couple of bills in the tip jar. 

Without realizing it, Castiel’s lips form into a small smile.

Claire keeps trying to reason with the rude customer, who keeps insisting Claire stop hiding the milkshake machine _they don’t have_.

Once again, the handsome man in the kilt pulls out a few dollar bills and places them in the jar after clearing his throat; only this time, the unreasonable woman and Claire have his attention.

As if the man isn’t beautiful enough, he then chooses that moment to speak. “Listen, _Karen,_ the more you harass this young lady —” he nods in Claire’s direction as if there is any question as to who he’s referring to “— the more money I put in her tip jar.” As if to prove his point, he takes out a single bill from his wallet and deposits it in the jar, all without breaking eye contact with the obnoxious woman.

A shiver goes down Castiel’s spine.

His eyes snap to the disrespectful woman, desperate to see her reaction.

"I'm sorry, do you work here?" she asks in that squeaky voice Castiel has grown to detest.

"No," he replies, tipping with another bill, "But that doesn’t mean I'm gonna stand here and let you disrespect this young lady who’s just tryin’ to do her job."

Castiel's heart flutters in their chest.

He looks over at Claire whose arms are no longer crossed in frustration, whose eyes no longer glare in contempt, and whose attention is no longer on the “Karen” in front of her but rather on the kind man in a kilt who is not only helping her deal with an awful customer but also tipping her generously.

“Listen, Karen, the way I see it —”

“My name isn’t ‘Karen’,” she interrupts rather snippily.

But the man continues speaking over her as if she hadn’t. “— you got two options. Keep yelling at this employee or leave. Keep in mind, I just got paid; I can do this all day,” he warns her.

The ‘Karen’ looks back and forth between Claire and the man in disbelief. She sputters and leaves in a huff and the bell above the door ringing never sounded so sweet. 

Castiel turns his attention back on the man as the shop’s patrons erupt into applause. The man puts _more_ money in the tip jar before finally putting his wallet away; he pays the applauding customers no mind. He turns to his daughter and begins talking to her. 

Castiel listens intently, the applause dying down in the background, because while the man helped deescalate the situation, who knows what his intentions are; after all, his kindness could be a ruse to get close to Claire. 

“Are you alright?” He asked Claire.

Claire eyes the full tip jar. She looks back at the man in front of her. “I am now,” she grins.

The man chucks. “Sorry about that,” he points at the door, where the ‘Karen’ just left from.

“Thanks, but it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, still. You shouldn’t have to deal with shitty customers like that.”

Claire shrugs, nonchalantly, “Part of the job.”

The man pauses before saying, "Yeah, I get it, I used to fix cars for a living. Before that, I was a waiter at a fancy restaurant. People can really suck.” The man’s tone carries the wistfulness of someone with personal experience. 

“I’m a big girl, I can handle myself,” Claire responds, not unkindly.

The man grins. “Oh, I noticed. You did great,” he chuckles, “I’m surprised that the woman didn’t spontaneously combust, what with the way you looked at her. Nice lazer eyes you got there.”

Claire grins back and from here, Castiel can see the mischief in her eyes, “I learned from the best.” She turns her attention to Castiel, “Hey, Ren, come meet my new friend.”

Castiel barely has time to process this before the man, Claire’s “new friend”, follows her line of sight and lands on Castiel. 

Castiel audibly gasps when the man faces him.

He’s tall, yes — that much Castiel could tell when he first stood up — and has sandy brown hair and eyebrows to match. Castiel already knew that; they saw the man’s beautiful profile. But seeing the man’s face from the front, as opposed to his profile, leaves Castiel feeling a little breathless — the man is _stunning_.

The man openly stares at Castiel, drinking in his features and Castiel feels their cheek heat up. 

Claire clears her throat.

Castiel hesitates before turning his attention back on his daughter. She points her thumb in the direction of the back room. “My shift’s over, I’m gonna go get my stuff,” Claire smiles at him as if she knows exactly why he hesitated. He hopes not, he’d never hear the end of it. 

She spins on her heel and makes her way to the staff room.

Meanwhile, the man has yet to stop looking him up and down. With a great deal of effort, Castiel tears his eyes from the man’s gaze, blinking a few times as if to clear his head. Head in the right space, they pack up their papers, the “Red Pen of Doom”, and proceed to turn his computer off. Papers and pen in the laptop case, and laptop in his hands ready to follow, that’s what Castiel looks like when the man walks over to him. 

“Is this seat taken?” the man asks.

Castiel freezes. “Um,” he replies eloquently, “No.”

“Awesome,” The man smiles, just this side of shy, pulling the chair across the table closer to Castiel until their knees are only a few inches away. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself with a vibrant smile, holding his hand out for Castiel to shake.

Castiel stares, a bit wide-eyed. It isn’t until the man — Dean — raises an eyebrow and grins at him, in a way that suggests the man — Dean — knows the effect he has on Castiel, that they came down to Earth from the clouds. “One moment, please,” he mutters, focusing his attention on the laptop he scrambles to put back in it’s case, not trusting himself to not make a fool of himself in front of the attractive customer. Laptop safe in its case, Castiel faces Dean, all of their attention on the even-more-handsome-up-close man. 

Dean looks at Castiel expectantly. Castiel frowns lightly until he belatedly remembers Dean introduced himself and is likely waiting for Castiel to introduce himself. “Castiel,” he blurts out, a bit wide-eyed in delayed understanding. “My name — it’s — it’s Castiel.” He holds out his hand for Dean to shake and tries his best not to berate themself for their unusual lack of eloquence. 

Dean gives him a lopsided smile and shakes his hand; Castiel no longer has to berate himself for his unusual lack of eloquence since _all_ of their thoughts left their brain as it short-circuits and he openly stares at Dean wide-eyed in awe.

“I got something on my face or something?” Dean asks, amused despite the pink coloring his cheeks.

Castiel snaps himself out of his daze and shakes his head as if to clear it. In doing so, his eyes land on their still-clasped hands and Castiel lets go. “No — no. My apologies. I don’t seem to be myself at the moment,” he gives Dean what he hopes is an apologetic look.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean dismisses Castiel’s statement with a wave of his hand. “‘Castiel’, huh?”

Fully prepared to defend their name ( _yes, that’s my real name; I’m well aware it’s a mouthful; yes, my parents are religious; no, I will not change it_ ), Castiel is caught off guard when Dean responds with — “That’s, uh, the Angel of Thursday, isn’t it?”

Castiel stares at the man in front of him in wide-eyed awe — again — even more intently than before. “Yes,” he remembered to respond, “How did you know?” Castiel says, frowning slightly and tilting his head. 

“My little brother’s a religious studies major,” Dean smiles, beaming with pride, whether pride at himself for knowing the angel Castiel was named after or pride for his little brother, Castiel does not know; what Castiel does know is that Dean’s smile causes somersaults in his stomach. 

“That’s, um, that’s —” Castiel tries to speak. Emphasis on _tries_. 

“Nerdy?” Dean interrupts, “Yeah, I know, but that’s Sammy for you.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth curl into a small smile. “I was going to say ‘admirable’.”

“Really?” Dean frowns in confusion, as if he can’t possibly fathom how Castiel came to such a conclusion, and Castiel should _not_ find it as adorable as they did. He also should not find Dean’s pouty lips as distracting nor enticing as he does. “ _Why?_ ” Dean asks.

“Well, I — uh —” Castiel scrambles for something to say after having been brought back from deep within his thoughts, “— I didn’t study religion in college — I didn’t have to, as I’m sure you may have guessed from my name, my parents were very religious — but I can’t imagine it’s a particularly lucrative field, I'm sure your brother is doing it because he enjoys what he’s doing.”

Dean stares at Castiel. _Really_ stares at them, so much so that Castiel begins to squirm in their seat, but they maintain eye contact; they stare back. In the back of his mind, he wonders if this was what other people feel like when Castiel stares at them, but that can’t be right. 

When other people, namely his ex-wife, daughter, and older brother, tell him to cut it out, Castiel they always describe his staring as “creepy” and “uncomfortable”; but this, looking into Dean’s eyes, it’s neither “creepy” nor “uncomfortable”. It feels — for lack of a better term — _intimate_. Castiel feels _seen_ and _understood_ as if Dean were staring into Castiel’s very soul and it stared at Dean’s right back. It’s after this particular revelation Castiel realizes they got lost staring into the greenest and most beautiful eyes they’d ever seen. 

Dean seems to find what he’s looking for if his resuming their conversation is any indication, “I’ll be sure to tell Sam that.” Dean grins and Castiel looks around the ice cream shop while shifting in his seat. 

_What is taking Claire so long,_ he wonders. 

“So, if you didn’t go to college for Religious Studies then what did you study?” Castiel’s attention is brought back to Dean.

“Women’s, Gender, and Sexualities Studies,” Castiel replies with a proud smile, “I’m a professor at the local university.”

“Really?” Dean asks, grinning, “I took some WGSS classes back in college.”

Castiel’s eyes lit up in interest. _Finally, someone who understands,_ he thinks. “Really?”

“Yeah, it was awesome,” Dean explains, elbow resting on the table, “Those were some of my favorite classes. And some of the psych classes, too.” Dean pauses before adding, “Let me tell ya, there’s nothing like figuring out your sexuality in the middle of class,” Dean stares into space with a smile on his face, as if recalling happy memories. 

“What do you mean?” Castiel aims for casual interest but fails. Who can blame them, when they’re personally invested in the answer? 

“I mean,” Dean removes his arm from its resting place on the table and holds his hands out in front of him as if he were gripping a small ball and Castiel totally does not notice the man’s thick fingers and rough-looking hands. “I was in one of my WGSS classes when the smokin’ hot TA started rambling on about different gender identities and sexualities and shit, and before I know it she’s talking about bisexuality. At that point, I was distracted by her, uh, _enthusiasm_ —” (Castiel frowns at this, suspecting Dean isn’t talking about her passionate method of teaching at all if his embarrassed expression and blush is anything to go by) “— but then she’s talking about how there are people who feel attraction to more than two genders and I’m like, ‘Woah, she’s talkin’ ‘bout me!’” Dean motions to himself. 

“At that point, I had to zone back in and pay attention to the lesson, but, man, when she moved on, I was still thinkin’ about it. It was like, something clicked and everything about me made sense, y’know? Of course, at the time, I had a big ol’ bisexual panic about it for a few weeks before I finally came to terms with it, but that’s just how it goes.” Dean ended his story with a shrug of his shoulders.

Throughout the story, Castiel enjoyed watching the emotions flit on Dean’s face, but mostly, he enjoyed watching the way Dean’s gorgeous green eyes lit up when he spoke and the way he used his hands to tell his story. Castiel sat there, enraptured by the man before them to the point that it takes them a moment to realize Dean finished speaking. 

“So — you’re bisexual?” Castiel fumbles.

“Yeah,” Dean’s smile lights up the room, and Castiel is overcome with how not only attractive but also how _cute_ Dean is. He's so pleased with himself, showing off his bisexual flag pride pin and the matching pleats on his black kilt, and Castiel’s heart surges with longing and _pride_ ; Dean is so pleased with himself that Castiel can’t help but feel proud of him, too, especially when Dean smiles at him like _that_. They’re so lost in Dean’s smile they almost don’t notice the other pride pin attached to Dean’s red buffalo plaid shirt.

_Almost._

Blue, pink, white, pink, blue.

The colors of the transgender pride flag. 

Castiel looks up at Dean in awe, yet again. 

If this continues, they’ll have to start getting used to Dean surprising them and Castiel finds themself not only okay with this but also _wanting_ it.

Dean looks at Castiel in confusion, likely wondering why they’re looking at him so differently all of a sudden. 

Castiel points to their laptop case, specifically to the two pride flag pins attached to the front. 

Yellow, white, purple, black. The non-binary pride flag.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. The gay pride flag.

Dean follows Castiel’s line of sight and understanding dawns on his face when he catches sight of the pins. He looks back at Castiel and beams, lighting up the room once again, only this time his smile is aimed at Castiel, who responds by grinning back at gazing into Dean’s eyes, who wants nothing more than to see that smile aimed at him more often.

A blur of motion — a patron getting a napkin from the counter — from the corner of their eyes catches their attention and forces Castiel to snap back into reality. He clears his throat just as a thought occurs to him. “You mentioned taking psychology and WGSS classes, but you never mentioned your job,” he points out. 

Dean gives him a grin Claire undoubtedly would describe as “shit-eating” before answering.

Castiel gapes at Dean. When Dean’s face begins falling and he starts looking less sure of himself, Castiel schools their features into something a bit more appropriate. “Wow, that must be an interesting job.”

Dean smiles, although it’s not the same and Castiel curses themself for making Dean feel less sure of himself. “Oh, it is,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows, “Of course, I can’t get into detail, what with doctor/patient confidentiality.”

“No, of course, that’s very important. I appreciate your loyalty to your patients.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand, scoffing, “Any good therapist would do the same.”

Castiel hums neutrally, “How did you end up in that field?” he tilts his head. “I’m sure you didn’t wake up one day in high school and decide you wanted to be a sex therapist,” the corner of his lip curls, “Or did you?”

Dean gives a laugh that seems to resonate from his stomach and Castiel stares at him, with a small smile that makes him momentarily glad Claire isn’t here since she’d call him a “sap”. “Yeah, no, that’s exactly what happened.”

Castiel raises his brows. 

“Dude, I’m _joking,_ ” Dean lets out a deep exhale as he composes himself. “No, to be honest with you, I don’t know how I ended up a sex therapist. Let’s see — I, uh, took a bunch of psych classes in college, and the WGSS classes - and I’ve always wanted to help people — next thing I know, it’s junior year of college, my advisor’s giving me a list of careers that fit the classes I’ve taken so far, I see ‘sex therapist’ on there — somewhere towards the bottom — the rest is history, y’know?” Dean looks at Castiel expectantly.

“I know.” He doesn’t.

“Besides, I love sex. Teaching it, talking about it, learning about it —” Dean gives Castiel a significant and heated look “— _having_ it.” Castiel struggles a bit to swallow around a throat that has suddenly gone dry, as both he and Dean blush furiously. A beat passed before Dean redirects the conversation, “What about you? How’d you end up teachin’ WGSS?”

Castiel chuckles, smiling down at his hands in his lap for a second before looking back at Dean. “My best friend Meg was a WGSS major as well and she convinced me to change my major after a heated debate on whether Shakespeare was gay or bisexual. She promised me if I changed my major from accounting, I’d be able to prove to her Shakespeare was bi.”

The entire time Castiel spoke, Dean listened carefully; now, Dean laughs, throwing his head back, exposing crinkles in his eyes and the column of his throat. When his fit of laughter permitted, he spoke. “Wait — wait, run this by me again, you — you majored in WGSS to — what, exactly? Win an argument?”

Castiel smiles shyly, “I suppose when you put it like that, it sounds rather silly.” Castiel looks down at their hands as they nervously smooth down their trench coat.

“Are you kidding me? That’s awesome,” Dean replies, putting one hand over both of Castiel’s, who stops fidgeting. Dean’s hand feels warm and calloused, just as Castiel suspected, as he wraps both hands around Dean’s. “Did you win the argument?”

Castiel hesitates. Ever since he changed his major to WGSS, he and Meg decided in order to preserve their friendship, it was best they establish boundaries for their heated debate on Shakespeare’s sexuality, otherwise, things would get ugly very quickly. Soon thereafter, the two of them agreed that every year on the anniversary of Castiel changing his major, they would publicly debate Shakespeare’s sexuality and on the other three-hundred sixty-four days of the year, they’d gather as much evidence as possible to back up their points. However, through the years, as he and Meg have matured, the debate has grown less and less heated and become more of a tradition, and in recent years, a competition to see who could come up with the most ridiculous “proof” as to why Shakespeare was gay or bisexual. 

Castiel gives an awkward, one shoulder shrug, “It’s complicated.”

Unperturbed, Dean leans in and whispers, conspiratorially, “So, _is_ Shakespeare bi?”

Castiel leans in, smirking. “Of course,” he says, like he’s letting Dean in on a secret. 

Before either of them knows it, they’re gazing into one another’s eyes.

Dean’s cheeks become dusted with a light pink color and this close to his face, Castiel notices Dean’s freckles for the first time and adores the way they stand out when Dean blushes.

Castiel gives him a small smile in return.

Dean and Castiel continue staring into one another’s eyes for so long they forget about the world around them. The other patrons’ conversations are ignored in favor of cataloging all of the shades of green and gold in Dean’s eyes and all the freckles on his face. Lost in Dean’s beauty, time seems to slow down and speed up all at once; it feels like hours have passed when a blur of blonde in the corner of his eye catches Castiel’s attention and at the same time it feels like only a few seconds have elapsed. Regardless of the passage of time, the moment is over and Dean seems to think so, too, since he shakes his head as if shaking a trance loose; his hand, however, never leaves Castiel’s.

Castiel looks up and sees Claire grab the spray bottle and rag from earlier before she returns to the back room.

Castiel frowns as a thought occurs to him. “I never thanked you for standing up for Claire.”

Dean’s furrowed brows give way to understanding when he remembers what Castiel is talking about. “No thanks needed. Besides, anyone would have done the same.” he dismisses Castiel’s appreciation with the hand currently not in their grip. 

“Maybe, but you’re the only one that _did_ and I really appreciate it,” Castiel gives Dean his most appreciative smile; gums, teeth, eye crinkles and all.

“Yeah, well, Claire did most of the heavy lifting. She really held her own,” Dean gives a chuckle which Castiel can only describe as self-deprecating, but he isn’t entirely sure. “I wish I had half her spunk when I was serving a few years back.”

It isn’t until a shadow passes, there one second, gone the next, over Dean’s features that Castiel is sure his chuckle was self-deprecating. 

Castiel chuckles, “That she did. I’m quite proud but I can’t take any credit for that. Neither can Amelia. Claire has always been... _spirited._ ”

For a split second, a strange look, which seems suspiciously like disappointment and hurt, marr Dean’s stunning features before the moment is gone. “And Amelia is…?”

“Claire’s mom.” Castiel gives Dean a pointed look, “And my ex-wife.”

Dean’s eyes widened with hope before he carefully schools his features into something a bit more apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel scoffs, “Don’t be. The divorce was mutual and we split amicably.” Castiel smirks, “She accepted my coming out as non-binary but apparently coming out as gay was a bit of a turn-off.”

Dean cackles. It’s a full-bodied cackle where he puts one hand on his stomach and the other on the table for balance when he leans too far back in his chair. Around them, some of the patrons stare at Dean in disapproval until Castiel glares at every single one of them, then the other customers look away. Once Castiel feels the other customers are properly chastised, he turns to Dean, who’s catching his breath, with a gummy smile, because he made Dean laugh like that. And he wants to do it again.

“Yeah,” Dean speaks when he’s finally able to, “I can see how coming out as gay can be —” Dean broke out into more laughter “— can be a bit of — of a turn off.” Dean went so far as to wipe tears out of his eyes. He lets out an exhale. “ _Wow,_ I haven’t laughed like that in a while.” 

Dean looks at Castiel like he’s the only person in the building worth looking at and Castiel can’t help but soak up the attention like a greedy little sponge. Dean clears his throat. “So, uh, what are your pronouns? I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.”

“He/him and they/them. And it’s my fault as well — I shouldn’t have assumed. What are yours?”

“Just he/him,” Dean lets Castiel know.

“I’m ready to go, ren,” Claire walks up to the two of them and it’s a testament to how distracting Dean is because the reason Castiel went to the ice cream shop in the first place somehow snuck up on them; more to the point, Dean is so distracting, Castiel momentarily forgot why he came to the ice cream parlor, to begin with. 

Castiel and Dean flinch, causing Dean to let go of Castiel’s hands, and they barely manage to avoid looking like two teenagers who got caught by their parents. When Claire looks between him and Dean with a smirk and a knowing look Castiel feels a little too much like the time his mother saw him pining after his high school crush. “Let’s go.”

Castiel faces their daughter. “ _Claire,_ ” Castiel reprimands, “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

“ _Ren_ , you can flirt later. Come on, we have to start cooking soon if we want dinner ready by the time _American Horror Story_ starts,” Claire reminds them. 

Flustered, Castiel tries, and fails, to save face, “We’re not — that’s not what’s going on.”

“It’s not?” Dean asks, the hurt in his tone betraying the eyebrow raised in disbelief attempting to be casual and missing it by a mile.

Feeling himself grow a bit pale and wide-eyed, Castiel overcorrects, “No. I mean, ‘yes’ — I mean, I’d like it to be,” Castiel grows increasingly shy as he speaks.

“Me too,” Dean gives him a shy smile in return.

Castiel smiles as well and before they know it, they find themselves staring into one another’s eyes.

Claire, seemingly fed up with their staring, speaks up, “Great, now that we’ve established y’all _are_ flirting, can you quit making heart eyes at one another so we can go now?” The tone laced with sarcasm lets him know their daughter rolled her eyes. Claire faces Castiel and speaks to him directly. “ _Ren_ , you promised you’d let me teach you how to make Chicken Cordon Bleu,” she insistently reminds him. 

Castiel tears their eyes away from Dean to focus his attention on Claire. “You’re right,” they commented, sounding a bit resigned. It’s not that they didn’t want to spend time with Claire, the opposite really, they’d been planning tonight for over a month, it’s just — Castiel glances at Dean and misses Claire rolling her eyes — he’s really enjoying spending time with Dean. When they focus on Claire again he notices her arms are crossed and she looks less than impressed.

Dean voices his, rather hesitant, opinion. “You’d better go, Castiel. I’d hate to get in the way of your parent-daughter time.” Dean gives him a reassuring smile and Castiel could tell Dean’s not the only one who considers their parting such sweet sorrow.

Their shared look of longing is once interrupted by Claire. “For fuck’s sake —” Claire throws her arms up in exasperation “— just ask him out already!”

Castiel’s eyes widen as Dean begins to smirk. “ _Claire,_ ” they warn. 

“ _What?_ You’re into him, he’s _obviously_ into you —” Castiel is fortunate enough to catch Dean blushing from the corner of their eyes “— he stood up for your only kid, and I like him. Ask him out already, Sarah Paulson waits for no one,” Claire states, arms crossed as she impatiently taps a foot on the ground.

Castiel feels his cheeks grow impossibly warm. He faces Dean, ready to — apologize? “Ask him out”? Castiel never gets the chance to figure out what he was going to say because Dean beats him to it. “Yeah, Castiel,” Dean leans forward and gives him a flirty, lopsided grin, “Ask me out already.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “You _want_ me to?”

“Of course,” Dean answers as if he couldn’t imagine the answer being anything else. He pauses. Then looks Castiel up and down in a, frankly, _obscene_ manner before licking his lips and saying, “Very much.”

At the same time Claire faux gags, Castiel’s mouth becomes dry and he swallows to counteract the dryness. Afterward, ignoring Claire’s protests and Dean’s consequent response (“Gross, old guy flirting with my ren.” “ _Hey,_ I’m not old!"), Castiel clears his throat and his head before turning in his chair, to face Dean and proceeding.

“Dean,” when blue meets green, Castiel almost forgets the rest of his sentence. Almost. “Will you allow me the pleasure of taking you out for dinner?”

“Castiel,” Dean’s intensity matches his own and Dean smiles with crinkles in his eyes, which makes Castiel’s heart flutter, “Hell yes.”

“ _Finally!_ Give him your number so we can go home now,” Claire exclaims.

Castiel removes their cell phone from their laptop case while Dean takes his phone out of his kilt pocket and they exchange phone numbers. No sooner than “Dean <3” sends “Hot Professor Dad Cas” a text to make sure neither of them typed in the wrong number, does Alex walk out of the back room. 

She stops short, taking in the sight of Dean and Castiel leaning towards one another on their phones and Claire shooting them glares of impatience. “What did I miss?”

The three of them look to Alex.

Sensing Claire is about to say something, Castiel glances at her just in time to witness a mischievous and cheeky grin form, as if in slow motion. “I just got a new stepdad.”

“ _Claire!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated <3
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sapphirecobalt-1)
> 
> Do you ship Destiel? Are you 18+? Come join us over on [Profound Bond Discord](https://discord.gg/profoundbond), we'd love to have you!


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